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BOMBAY sweltered. The police commissioner's dim-lit library was stifling in spite of electric fans. The night's humidity, the length of a garden, and two streets deadened the clang of tramcars; but there was a rumbling undertone of indrawn rancor. There had been a three-day pause, brooding between riots; passion, momentarily exhausted, redistilled itself at ninety in the shade. But the watch kept. Police headquarters are where the commissioner is at the end of a telephone. He clicked back the phone on its rest and wiped his forehead; a gray man, with a rather close-clipped gray mustache and heavy eye-brows over his dark and deep-sunken eyes.

Blair Warrender took the chair opposite and eased his long legs under the table. He was a much younger man, not scared of the commissioner but not quite at ease. The commissioner was an irritating enigma—he was sometimes genial, equally often sardonic. He expected his subordinates to work in the dark and take the blame for accidents. He had a better than usual record for blaming or praising the right man, but he trusted subordinates, according to their view of it, too much or not enough.

He almost never trusted one individual with all the facts of a case. When he called a man by his first name, it might indicate confidence, or it might reveal familiarity that borders on contempt; there was no knowing which. But no one, least of all Blair Warrender, doubted his ability or dreamed of disobeying his orders.

There was a rather new scar on his chin, but nothing very noticeable about Blair Warrender except his eyes. They smoldered. They made some women hate him at sight. Other, wiser women, recognized controlled and consequently deadly anger; some took sporting chances with it. Wiser women yet sought his friendship, dangerous in one sense though it might be. Men found him easy to work with, if rather exacting. He was very neat in a new uniform that he could ill afford: his other one had been torn off his back by Hindus. In the course of routine duty he had saved some of them from being scragged by Moslems, and they had therefore accused him of racial prejudices along with more unmentionable faults: but he was used to that and exasperatingly unresentful.

The table was near one end of the room, where the shaded electric light made the Bokhara hanging look like a blood-stained arras. At the other end of the room, near the door, stood a turbaned servant who had rather Mongolian eyes: when the commissioner, with a cigar in one side of his mouth, grumbled indistinctly and in a low voice that it was the hottest night in ten years, the servant examined the switch of the electric fan. So the commissioner pitched his voice still lower.

"Read this."

He handed Blair Warrender a London daily paper ten days old, blue-penciled at a headline in heavy type:

class="headline" INDIA: BRITISH OFFICER MYSTERIOUSLY MISSING. RUMORED VICTIM OF TERRORISTS. OFFICIAL SILENCE.

Blair Warrender read the paragraph—frowned— passed the paper back.

"Frensham," he said, "has been missing for months. According to the League of Nations report about a hundred thousand people vanish every year without trace. The mystery is that the papers didn't learn of this sooner. I suppose this means trouble."

"For you, yes. You find Frensham." The commissioner folded the newspaper, laid it on some other documents and slipped an elastic band over the lot. Then he handed a file of reports across the table. "I need you like the devil here in Bombay, but"—he paused perceptibly, with his eyes on the servant over by the door—"you are to take this case and find Frensham dead or alive."

Blair Warrender scowled over the file, turning the papers and idly refreshing memory.

"Nothing new here, sir. We knew all this before Frensham was three days massing? On leave in Rajputana—vanished—trunk in his bedroom, at the Kaiser-i-Hind Hotel at Mount Abu found cut open and looted of unknown contents—one servant, said to be deaf-and dumb, also missing—the other servant paid off. sent home and knows nothing. Private affairs apparently in order—no money trouble—no debts—no known enemies—health good—no probable reason for suicide. Nothing new in that file."

"Did you notice the date?"

"The eleventh."

The commissioner pushed a calendar across the table. "Notice anything else?"

"No. The calendar says full moon on the fifteenth, but what of it?"

"Bear that in mind. Leaving Mount Abu on horseback, tiding leisurely, a man might reach Gaglajung in three days. There is an unconfirmed and unreliable report that a man who might be David Frensham was seen on foot, not far from Gaglajung, on the late afternoon of the fourteenth."

"Why should he go there?"

"That's for you to find out. Frensham's friend at Doongar, which is near Gaglajung, is a Mohammedan named Abdurrahman Khan. He's a quite unimpeachable gentleman, aged seventy—ex-rissaldar of irregular horse —three medals—five bars—persona grata—old and innocuous. He might have supplied a horse or two; he has them. Night, near the full of the moon, in Rajputana, is the best time to travel, and horses that reached Mount Abu by night and left the same night might not be noticed.

"Abdurrahman Khan may have liked Frensham as much as I did. He'd be capable of doing what he was asked, and saying nothing. Men of his type, expecting to die soon, have a way of letting secrets die with them. You won't get much out of him, but you may get something, if you're careful and don't ask questions."

Warrender lit a cigarette and glanced in a mirror to see why the commissioner kept watching the servant, but the glance told him nothing. "Abdurrahman Khan may already have been questioned," he said.

The commissioner nodded. "Yes. If so, he'll tell nothing at all." He took his eyes off the servant at last and looked straight at Blair. "But there are some scattered facts worth noting. For instance, Frensham had a photograph of Wu Tu among his private papers."

Blair scowled at that. "Who hasn't? Wu Tu advertises herself like a film-star."

"Know what her name means?"

"Yes—Chinese for 'Five Poisons.'"

"Right. Wu Tu may have murdered Frensham."

Blair Warrender held his tongue. He had suggested investigating Wu Tu months ago, but no one who was even half-wise reminded the commissioner about advice that he had seen fit not to take.

"David Frensham," the commissioner continued, "has been my intimate personal friend for going on thirty years. His wife died more than twenty years ago. Aside from his personal kindliness, he was a charming lunatic or a great genius, either or perhaps both. An omnivorous reader—student of archaeology and ancient languages—mathematician— philosopher. He used to read Charles Fort's books. Nothing delighted him more than to prove Charles Fort right and everybody else wrong. Do you know Fort's books?"

"Yes. His daughter Henrietta lent them to me."

"That's another clue. Keep that also in mind. So far, you've the new moon on the fifteenth—Gaglajung, where a charcoal-burner said he saw a man who might be Frensham— Abdurrahman Khan, who may have provided horses—Wu Tu's photograph—Charles Fort's books and Frensham's known delight in Indian magic. That's stuff that no soldier should tackle, although soldiers are the ones who seem most interested. It gets them a 'rep' for being unreliable and shuts them off from promotion. Headquarters were always glad to let Frensham wander off investigating one thing or another. As an Engineer officer he had plenty of opportunities for that, and he did some decent Intelligence work. But he couldn't let magic alone. Secret Service File FF is half-choked with his reports on that stuff."

Blair Warrender smiled. "Do you believe in magic?"

"I am not saying what I believe. That file is raw material for scientific study, I don't mind telling you. It contains stories from men returned from Himalayan expeditions that would make your hair stand on end. Frensham believed magic is the crumbled remnants of an ancient science. That's a clue to his disappearance."

"As you say, sir. I know nothing about magic."

"Nor I, except what David Frensham told me." The commissioner dropped his voice even lower. "But don't forget that some people think they do know. I'm about to introduce you to a man who thinks he does; whether he does or doesn't is beside the point. Study him."

His eyes were again on the servant, but his right hand went into a steel box on the table. He groped in it among docketed papers. Deliberately, slowly, he produced what looked like a block of gold, seven or eight inches long by about half that breadth and depth.

"Look at it," he said. "Take hold of it." It was heavy. Blair weighed it in both hands —examined it narrowly, thumbing a corner where a very small piece had been sawn or chipped off.

"I did that," said the commissioner. "Had it analyzed. Almost pure gold. Something less than one half of one per cent of an unknown alloy that makes it harder than cast iron. But it seems to become permanently soft, like ordinary gold, after being melted two or three times."

Blair Warrender's eyes betrayed a vague excitement.

"Pure gold?" he said. "No, not heavy enough."

"Shake it."

The thing was hollow. He could feel but not hear movement of something loose inside it.

"Well?" he demanded. It made him angry to have traps set for his curiosity; he was not a baby being set conundrums. The commissioner noticed that. He seemed amused. He spoke almost absent-mindedly.

"I don't know what it is. The microscope reveals no joint, welding or anything like that." He was no longer looking at Blair. He got up, stared at the servant near the door, walked over to him and spoke in English.

"You're a patient rogue. Come and look at it. Let me see you take it in your hands."

The servant's ivory-yellow face revealed no other emotion than a slight and hardly visible alertness. He was a big, upstanding man with heavy neck and shoulders, handsomely ugly, broad-nosed, intelligent looking, and probably almost strong enough to fell an ox with his fist. But the humid heat of Bombay had rather slackened his stance. He was sweating.

"What is it? Look at it. Hold it. Speak!" the commissioner ordered.

The man's face grinned with sudden wrinkles, and each wrinkle seemed to hide a secret. He turned the block over and over in his hands. It appeared to excite him but to make him cautious. He conquered the excitement, let the wrinkles die, and shook his head.

"Not knowing—knowing nothing about this," he said, in English that appeared intentionally mispronounced. Then he shut up—eyes, mouth, attitude. The commissioner seized his wrist and felt his pulse; then he ordered him out of the room. When he had gone he chose a fresh cigar, sat down and said:

"Pulse normal. Calls himself Taron Ling—came to me from a place called Naga Kulu in the Northern Punjab. He had one of the most beautifully forged testimonials I have ever seen. I took him on to find out what his game is."

"Do you know now?"

"No more than I know how Frensham vanished. But I know Taron Ling is a crook, a hypnotist and a spy, for or against Wu Tu, I don't know which. I know he wants, but I don't know why he wants, this gold brick, He knows now that I know he wants it. So perhaps he'll chuck trying to steal it, and bolt. If he doesn't, I'll scare him properly. I want him to bolt. I want him followed." Blair Warrender nodded doubtfully. He knew the odds in favor of a fugitive through Indian crowds, with most men and—worse yet, women—aiding or benevolently neutral. Nobody aids the pursuing police except from the thoroughly unreliable motives of fear or revenge. But it was no use discussing that; the commissioner would do as he pleased; he always did.

The commissioner put the gold block back into the steel box and locked it. "It's Frensham's, I think. It was found in the possession of a Punjabi Moslem, who was badly savaged in the riot last Thursday afternoon. He died the same night without giving his name or saying anything. But he was identified the following morning as the man who murdered Henrietta Frensham's ex-chauffeur, who had left her, rather more than two months ago, without giving notice. She reported the loss of this thing—woman-fashion—vaguely. She described it as a hollow block made of yellow metal, gave approximate dimensions and said it had been stolen from a suitcase in her bedroom. I have thought of opening it."

"Why not, sir?"

"Several reasons. It may belong to Frensham, and Frensham may still be alive. If it's Henrietta's, it should be opened in her presence; but she would then know we have it, and I don't want her to know, not just yet. It would be simple, of course, to pretend it was open when found, but—I've a notion the contents have nothing to do with the case, although the thing itself may be immensely important."

"No idea what's in it?"

"Not an idea. But I've taken two really expert opinions—E.O. Tate and Grish Mukerji. For a wonder they agree. It may be older than the hills. I'm not exaggerating. Unofficially—meaning I'm not to be quoted— I'm one of the naive few who agree with the Theosophists and David Frensham and some other cranks that our chronology is all wrong. Hindu chronology may be nearer right by millions of years. This gold block may be antediluvian, to use a convenient phrase. It was put together as mysteriously as a hen puts the shell on an egg.

"It may be of enormous scientific interest, and my theory is that David Frensham found it and went looking for more. Whoever opens it should shave off one end by fractions of a millimeter at a time and examine each slice microscopically. That would take a long time, and there are very few who could do it. But let me tell you about the man I sent out of the room."

He walked to the door, opened it suddenly, strode into the passage, returned and locked the door behind him. Then the phone rang, and for a few minutes he sat at his desk in conversation with the office at headquarters. Blair sat uncomfortably, smoked irritably, knocking the ash from his cigarette with jerks that sent it flying two or three feet accurately into the brass tray on the desk. The commissioner prolonged the phone conversation, watching him, judging him while he talked.

At last he clicked the receiver in place and began:

"Taron Ling is a Tai from somewhere near the Salween country, but he doesn't know I know that. His testimonial was forged, in the name of the Rajah of Kulu's chief minister, by Dur-i-Duran Singh of Naga Kulu. He is one of Wu Tu's intimates, another spy. It's always important to watch the bank accounts of such people. Dur-i-Duran Singh of Naga Kulu, Wu Tu of Bombay, and Zaman Ali the horse-dealer have been banking too much money.

"It's usual at this time of year for Wu Tu to send money to Paris, Brussels, London and Shanghai; she is very wealthy, and she understands foreign exchange. But she has been dealing secretly in bullion. So has Zaman Ali. So has Dur-i-Duran Singh, who has.had the colossal impudence to send this fellow Taron Ling into my household to spy on me.

"Taron Ling, mind you, is a hypnotist of more than ordinary skill."

Blair grinned. "Did he hypnotise you?"

"No. I'm putting you on guard against him. Wu Tu is another hypnotist. Dur-i-Duran Singh is a third. I warn you: if you're drunk, or drugged, or tired out, or if conditions are in other ways suitable, such people can make you imagine anything whatever that you ever saw, that made a deep impression on you. That's the secret of most of the ghosts people see; they're freaks of memory, exaggerated by emotion. Men like Taron Ling can make you see 'em."

"But why me, sir?"

"Intuition is usually lazy thinking, eyewashed up to look like brain-work. However, intuition tells me you're the best man for this job, and I'm being guided by it. Weren't you once engaged to Henrietta Frensham?"

"No, sir." Blair's eyes came as close to an explosive oath as eyes can.

"Thought of it, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Then why not?"

"Private reasons."

"Tell 'em."

There was a pause. In Blair Warrender's eyes there was no surrender. His personal views and his personal conduct were not subjects for discussion unless they qualified or limited his behavior in the course of duty. Did they? The commissioner—observing, smiling, chewed an unlighted cigar—met him halfway.

"I suspect her of being concerned in this. Now then. Go on. Tell me."

"I wasn't in love."

"Oh?"

"No, sir, I wasn't."

"Pretty close to it?"

"Yes."

"Then why not?"

"Don't like mystery, for one thing. For another, I took exception to her warning me against Wu Tu. I don't know how it came to Henrietta's knowledge that I had to see Wu Tu in the course of duty. But she asked me about it. I showed her a sketch I'd made of Wu Tu, who posed for it, two or three hours. As a matter of general interest I told Henrietta about Wu Tu being a British subject, of mixed Chinese-Sikh-Portuguese-French parentage. I probably also told her that Wu Tu is one of the most intelligent and fascinating women in the world."

The commissioner nodded. "That was no exaggeration. Go on. What happened?"

"Nothing definite. But Henrietta warned me I was under Wu Tu's influence. I resented it, but that probably wouldn't have mattered. However, when I denied it, she didn't believe me, and that did matter."

"Yes, yes. You've a temper. Go on."

"That's all. I'm very fond of Henrietta. But I don't like mystery, and she's mysterious. I don't like being disbelieved. And I don't care to make love to a woman unless I love her. Possibly I funked it. Anyhow, I put in for leave, as you know."

"And instead of getting it, you were sent to track Zaman Ali. Did it skilfully, too. Good God, if I'd given you leave you'd have moped and caught the plague or something! Tracking Zaman Ali from Peshawar kept your mind off love, I'll warrant! Did I ever mention to you that she's my god-child?"

"No, sir. What does that amount to?"

The commissioner threw away his cigar and chose another. "Damned if I know. Ask the bishop. But I always believe what she tells me, especially when she doesn't tell, if you get my meaning. We had some conversation about you."

"What did she say?" Blair's eyes were smoldering fires of governed anger.

"She's in love with you." The commissioner struck a match and carefully applied it to the end of his cigar. He took his time about it. Then, "The last time David Frensham dined with me, he mentioned it. He said he'd like you for a son-in-law."

"None of his damned business!"

"So I told him. I volunteered the opinion that Henrietta should marry her equal, if there is one. I said you're not nearly good enough, and I'm still of the same opinion."

"Thank you, sir."

"Don't mention it. I'm sending you to spy on Henrietta Frensham."

Blair stiffened, but the furious light in his eyes grew suddenly subdued. He looked calm, as almost always when he sensed a crisis. He could govern himself with a will of iron.

"For God's sake, why me, sir?"

"Because she's in love with you."

"I call that a good reason for putting another man on the case. I can't in common decency—"

The commissioner interrupted; "It's the nearest thing to decency at my disposal in the circumstances. She is my godchild and Frensham's daughter, under more than suspicion of knowing something which she is more likely to tell you than anyone else. David Frensham was a strange chap, and in some ways simpleminded. I don't entirely exclude the possibility of his having been tricked into some sort of criminal escapade. Henrietta may know that. Find out."

"Damn!" Blair muttered.

"All the same, go and do it. But I've another reason. I believe in offering fish the bait they fancy, and my information is that Wu Tu wants to see you."

"Who said so?"

"Chetusingh. I have had him on this case ever since Frensham vanished. For some reason that I can't guess, Wu Tu has a trap set ready for you; I'm almost as sure of that as that you're sitting here. I propose you shall walk straight into it. She's rather desperate, but I don't think dangerous—to you—at the moment."

"In what way desperate?"

The commissioner loved to parade a worldly wisdom cloaked in unexpected phrases. He smiled, knocked the ash from his cigar and sat back in his chair. "Did you ever hear of the law of diminishing returns? Wu Tu's profits have been prodigious. I don't mean merely cash, although she's very wealthy; she's a money-lender and a very skilful mistress of intrigue. She has used her money to get influence, and the influence to get more money.

"She's an, artist at blackmail, and loves it. But the law of diminishing returns takes care of everything that overreaches itself, and Wu Tu sees the writing on the wall. Her kind of fortune crumbles very rapidly when rot sets in, and. she's wise enough to know it. But she's fool enough to squander her money on yogis, mediums, alchemists, astrologers—charlatans of all sorts. She is afraid of age, afraid to die; even more afraid of what her enemies will do to her when the reins of her intrigues get out of hand and the luck begins to flow backward. She can see that coming—knows she's losing her grip. She's a long way from being the first to scour the world for a.philosopher's stone, but she has carried it to greater extremes than most people can afford. That's how she first came to know Dur-i-Duran Singh of Naga Kulu, who claims to have studied alchemy in Tibet. She has sometimes as many as twenty agents scouring the Himalayas at her expense for occult secrets."

"Suppose she knows any?"

"Yes, for what they're worth. Most of them are not worth much. But I suspect that this time she is after something big, which Frensham may have discovered. And she may have murdered Frensham or, more likely, caused him to be murdered. There are rumors; I'm sick of hearing them. That gold block, that you saw just now, in some way is connected with it.

"Henrietta, I think, must have had it from David Frensham. Taron Ling, instructed by Dur-i-Duran Singh, and in touch with Wu Tu and Zaman Ali, traced it into my possession and tried to steal it. That ties them all up together, but we won't bother about Dur-i-Duran Singh for the moment. Let's catch Wu Tu first, and a whole house of cards may come tumbling."

Blair objected. "Henrietta might have had that gold block in her suitcase, and known nothing about it. The way she reported its loss suggests that."

The commissioner laid his cigar down, set both clenched fists on the desk and leaned forward. "Henrietta," he said grimly, "knows more than she'll tell. To my certain knowledge she has talked with Wu Tu. That may sound unlikely, but I know it happened. Now she's in Rajputana, staying with the Graynes, in camp near Gaglajung. Do you know the Graynes?"

"Yes." Blair looked noncommittal. The commissioner continued:

"Grayne's a decent fellow, but a bit slack. Writes ridiculous plays in his spare time. Has a Christian Science aunt in the United States, who sends him checks and pamphlets. His wife cashes the checks and burns the pamphlets. Between the two of them I'd say they'd let a brass band go by without knowing which way it went. Grayne being on long leave, is probably composing poetry and noticing less than usual. I'm sending you there to find out why Henrietta invited herself to stay in the Graynes' camp. Visit Wu Tu first."

"When?"

"To-night. I will have her house surrounded in case of accident. But mind, no accidents! I want facts, not fireworks. I don't want her arrested. I want her to bolt. If there's a trap, walk straight into it and use your wits. I've a suspicion I know why Wu Tu wants you, and if I'm right you're in no immediate danger. You may be kidnaped. If not, make for Gaglajung by train to-morrow morning. I'll wire Mount Abu and have a proper bandobast all ready waiting for you at Abu Road Station. Take your time about reaching Gaglajung—camp close to villages each night and encourage gossip—learn all you can before you get there."

Blair scowled. "I would rather go to hell than force myself on Henrietta."

"Yes, hell may have its compensations. You'll be gazetted as on special leave, from tomorrow morning. Use the new code for telegrams. Keep me posted."

"Do I work alone, sir?"

"Howland of the C.I.D. will keep in close touch with you with two or three of his men, so look out for signals. I will have Y-Six and Y-Eighty-one on your heels; they won't let you out of sight for a minute, once you reach Gaglajung. And you're to work with Chetusingh."

"I'd rather pick my own man."

"What's wrong with Chetusingh? You trained him. He knows more about this than you do."

"That's the trouble. He's a bit inclined to rush his fences. He and I work better when he knows less and listens to me."

"He has orders to work with you, but to take his own line if he thinks that necessary. Pick him up at the Afghan dera; he'll go with you to-night. Better not go in uniform. Chetusingh is playing Pathan. You'd better do the same. Wu Tu will see through it at once, but it will make you less noticeable getting into the house, and once you're in it won't matter. Here are two special passes; I've a very special reason for your using them. They're bait for Zaman Ali. Don't get killed now. You're a valuable man. And don't forget: Facts not fireworks! Colonel—let's see, no, they'd just gazetted him a brigadier— Brigadier-General David Frensham alive or dead! What happened to him—how? When? where? Hold your tongue, learn all you can, and keep me posted. Good night, Blair my boy, and good luck."

Blair Warrender shook hands and walked out, cursing his luck in silence. It was bad enough that the commissioner almost never told more than half what he knew; one had to work more or less in the dark and learn to like it. But to have to thrust himself on Henrietta Frensham and invade her privacy—extract her secrets—spy on her—

"Good God! I supposed I'd never see her again. Well, orders are orders. Here goes."

He sent to his quarters, tubbed, changed and went to the Byculla Club, where he dined with a bishop.